


from the memory a rooted sorrow

by ThirtySixSaveFiles



Series: something wicked [3]
Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, M/M, Torture, dark magic au, unhealthy relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-24
Updated: 2017-07-24
Packaged: 2018-12-06 12:53:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11601063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThirtySixSaveFiles/pseuds/ThirtySixSaveFiles
Summary: Azkaban breaks everyone eventually.





	from the memory a rooted sorrow

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place after _this way comes_.
> 
> (Thank you to scootsaboot for the excellent beta work.)

_NOW_

Rhys’ head lolls back against the headrest as he sits in the dark. His wrists and legs are bound to the chair, his wand confiscated; there’s not much else he can do but sit and wait.

As intimidation tactics go, Rhys has seen worse. Has _done_ worse. He closes his eye against the dark, head throbbing in time with his heartbeat and eyepatch scratchy on his face. The blast that had gotten him captured had fractured his skull and blown out his left eye; reknitting the bone was easy enough for Ministry medics, but apparently replacing delicate nerves and soft tissue was considered a waste of resources, in Rhys’ case.

He’s trying to work out how he’ll apologize to Jack for getting caught in the first place when light stabs through his eyelid. He cracks his eye open to see a single spotlight above him. As he blinks the spots away from his vision the rest of the room slowly brightens, revealing the Wizengamot in its full glory: plum robes and stern faces, all very serious and all staring at him.

Rhys bares his teeth. They may have caught him but they won’t be able to _keep_ him, and he’ll be damned if he gives anything up in the meantime.

Minister Tassiter clears his throat and the scribe picks up a quill. “This begins formal proceedings against Mr. Rhys LeConte, on this day August 27th of the year…” Rhys rolls his remaining eye, tuning him out and staring up at the ceiling. Administrative bullshit is even less interesting than it used to be, somehow, now that he’s seen what _real_ power looks like.

“Are we boring you, Mr. LeConte?” A woman’s sharp voice cuts through Rhys’ reverie and he looks down to see the witch to the Minister’s right fold her hands in front of her and lean forward. “Do you have somewhere to be?”

 _Nice try_. “I do, actually.” Jack probably won’t risk storming the Ministry of Magic, not with his plans in disarray like this, so the sooner Rhys is out of here the better. He flexes his hands and curls his fingers around the ends of the armrests. “Get on with it, please.”

Murmuring fills the room and the Minister curls his lip, unrolling a scroll of parchment the witch sets in front of him. It’s a _long_ roll of parchment, and Rhys leans back and closes his eye again. This could take a while.

“Did you, Rhys LeConte, cast the _obliviate_ charm on one Justin DeLaney-Podmore on January the 12th of this year, in direct contradiction of the statute protecting Ministry workers from magical interference?”

“Yes.” They have his wand; there’s no point denying it, although Rhys idly wonders what gave it away. Justin hadn’t been the brightest spark to begin with.

There’s another round of murmurs before the Minister clears his throat and moves on. “Yes. Well. And did you, Rhys LeConte, cast the _Imperius Curse_ on one Morgana Bagnold on February 11th of this year?”

“Yes.” This time the room hushes and Rhys’ lips curl up the tiniest bit. _Imperio_ is the least of it. He wonders how much the Ministry knows; he supposes this is his chance to find out.

The list of Rhys’ crimes is long although, Rhys is interested to learn, not exhaustive. In the end, however, there can be only one outcome - has only _ever_ been one outcome since Rhys had looked up, head ringing and blood coursing down his face from the concussive blast that had knocked him off his feet, and seen a ring of Auror wands encircling him.

“Akzaban,” the minister says with a smug finality, signing the bottom of the scroll with a flourish; but the approving murmur that runs the room this time carries through it an undercurrent of uncertainty that Rhys can’t help but smile at it. That’s Jack’s doing; Azkaban may have stood for centuries but Rhys has no doubt that it will fall for Jack, just like everything else has.

Jack will come for him. Rhys just has to be patient.

* * *

 

Azkaban is cold. Everything is damp, from the walls to the rough-spun uniform they hand Rhys when he’s brought in, and the very air smells of salt and sweat and despair. A human guard leads him down identical hallway after identical hallway, one hand tight on Rhys’ arm as they spiral deeper into the fortress. The silvery light of the guard’s Patronus bounces off the walls as the luminescent rat scuttles over and around the guard’s shoulder. In the upper levels the inmates draw back from their cell doors, watching with the wary eyes of the recently beaten. He recognizes some as supporters they’d lost to Auror raids, and makes a note of which ones meet his gaze as he passes. No use in freeing traitors when Jack comes for him. Prisoners in the deeper levels move less, and watch them pass with the dull gaze of the resigned or the bright eyes of the insane.

The level the guard takes Rhys to is very, very deep. The Minister must be worried.

The guard comes to a stop in front of an empty cell and shoves Rhys into it, _clanging_ the door shut behind him and locking it with a hastily whispered spell. Rhys turns, rubbing his wrists as the bindings on them vanish, but the guard is already retreating, footsteps quickening as they fade back up into the distance. Rhys hadn’t expected him to stay; the real guards have yet to make an appearance, and even with a Patronus no one who had a choice would wait for them.

Rhys is out of choices, for the moment. He lifts a hand absently and strokes the mark on the side of his neck. It’s warm under his fingers.

Azkaban breaks everyone eventually - that’s what people say, anyway - but he won’t be here long enough for that. He just has to hold on.

His hand falters as the already-low light dims. Rhys takes an involuntary step back, then grits his teeth and steps forward again as the Dementor glides into view, ragged shroud drifting in an unfelt breeze. Jack’s counting on him to make it through; Rhys isn’t going to disappoint him. The temperature drops as the Dementor drifts closer, the cold leeching into Rhys’ bones as the hooded figure wraps skeletal fingers around the iron bars of the cell door. It leans its head forward and a low susurration fills the cell. Rhys’ muscles contract and he collapses jerkily to his knees.

 _Rhys, Rhys...Rhys._ Jack’s voice in his memory is cold, but it’s the disappointment that slices through Rhys like a knife. _Why don’t we start with just what the hell happened back there, kiddo._

Rhys shakes his head. No, that was a long time ago, things are - things are different now. He’s proven himself.

 _Thought I could trust you._ Rhys feels the dull burn of remembered shame, but Jack’s voice is crystal clear. _What. Happened._

Rhys braces trembling hands on the ground, the slimy texture of the flagstones a vague, distant sensation next to the sick feeling in his gut. He breathes deeply and concentrates on not throwing up, even as the remaining warmth drains out of him, drawn out through his skin and toward the monster on the other side of the door. He’s never been so cold.

He had known this was coming, or something like it; somehow he had thought his worst memory would be waking up to the news of his parents' deaths, or the hollow sick feeling when the family estate had been sold off. He had steeled himself for those, in what little time he’d had between trial and transport.

He hadn’t expected the disappointment in Jack’s tone, even remembered, to cut so deep, or to feel all that fear and uncertainty come flooding back.

Still. It’s survivable. Rhys smiles grimly to himself, wiping his nose on the sleeve of the coarse prison uniform. Jack had the right idea, with the _cruciatus_ sessions; he survived those, and they made him strong. He can survive this, and Jack _will_ come -

There’s a sucking sensation in his chest and Rhys looks up to see the Dementor shoving its head against the bars, tilting it up like a dog scenting the air. Its fingers twist around the iron bars, and there’s a ghostly echo in Rhys’ chest, like his lungs are being shredded. He can’t get enough air in, he can’t breathe, he can’t _breathe -_

 _Jack will_ -

There’s a ringing in Rhys’ ears and everything is muffled, far away. Everything _hurts_   _,_ and when his eye rolls back in his head Rhys lets the darkness drag him down.

* * *

 

When Rhys wakes up his entire body aches and his eye feels hot, like he’s been crying. He peels himself up off the ground, inch by agonizing inch, grimacing at the way his uniform sticks to the damp floor. He finally makes it up to his knees and looks around, wiping ineffectually at whatever’s on his cheek.

The Dementor appears to have moved on, at least for now; no doubt it will be back when it gets hungry. The cell is small and dirty. Probably not much of a cleaning service in here, Rhys thinks a little hysterically. He can’t remember the last time he’s slept; unconscious from a Dementor feeding probably doesn’t count.

The cell has no bed but Rhys suddenly doesn’t care. He moves a few feet toward a slightly cleaner spot on the floor - maybe where the last occupant slept - and curls up with his back against the wall. He pulls in on himself, fighting the lingering chill in his bones, and hopes he doesn’t dream.

* * *

 

When he opens his eye again Tassiter is waiting for him.

The Minister sits on a polished wooden chair on the other side of Rhys’ cell door, sharp suit and meticulously styled hair completely out of place in the dirty hallway. He seems to be taking notes, holding a small leather-bound book open before him as a quill _skritches_ itself across the pages. A luminescent silver vulture sits on Tassiter’s shoulder, peering down at the pages. It looks up and flaps its wings when Rhys pushes himself up, and Tassiter looks up, shutting the book with a _snap_.

“You’re going to die in this prison, Mr. Leconte,” the Minister says without preamble as he tucks the book away. “The only question is how long it’s going to take and how much discomfort you’re going to endure in the meantime.” He folds his hands and sets them on his crossed knee. “I’m in a position to make the remainder of your life a little easier, if you cooperate.”

If his throat didn’t feel like he’d swallowed sandpaper Rhys might have laughed; as it is he coughs, hauling himself painfully up into a sitting position. Every muscle in his body is stiff, and his bones still ache with the memory of Dementor-induced cold. He presses his back to the grimy cell wall, resting his head against it and closing his eye again.

“Jack must really have you worried.” His voice is scratchy and Rhys coughs again to clear his throat. “I would be, too.”

Tassiter makes a _tch_ of impatience. “John’s little insubordination will come to an end soon enough.” Rhys’ eye flies open at _John_ and he glares at Tassiter, but the Minister isn’t finished. “I felt bound by my station to offer you a chance,” he says as he draws out his wand and stands, his Patronus lifting off and hovering in the hallway, wings flapping slowly. “Your cooperation, however, is not required.”

Tassiter taps the bars with his wand and they shimmer, going translucent for a moment as Tassiter steps through them. Rhys scrambles up; if Tassiter is going to torture him he’ll be back on his ass in a minute, but at least he’ll face it on his feet. Tassiter grabs Rhys’ chin and holds him still, forcing Rhys to look him in the eye. Tassiter’s slightly shorter than he is, Rhys thinks wildly, stifling a hysterical giggle as he braces for the _Cruciatus Curse._

It doesn’t come.

Instead, Tassiter taps Rhys’ temple, right on the sore spot where the blast that had taken him down had hit him, and says “ _legilimens_.” Rhys’ eye widens and he tries to pull back but the Minister’s grip is firm, and Tassiter’s triumphant gaze is the last thing Rhys sees before white swirls over his vision.

It’s an invasion like nothing he’s ever felt, Tassiter’s clumsy pawing through his brain. It feels like clammy fingers rifling through his memories, and Rhys feels his eye twitch in its socket. He can distinctly feel Tassiter’s grip on his jaw, but all he sees are scenes from his life playing in jerky flashes behind his eyelids. The incident at the Ministry is of course the first thing Tassiter finds, pulled to the top by the Dementor.

“Squeamish when it’s someone you know, hm?” Tassiter’s voice is dry, derisive. Rhys clenches his teeth together as the vision of Jack’s disappointed face swims in front of him. “Spineless.” The visions skip forward, figures blurring through motions until they halt at a _cruciatus_ session Rhys had conducted.

“ _You’re doing so well, Ian.”_ The echo of Rhys’ encouraging voice swims in his ears as he sees his own hand reach out, smoothing away the tears trickling down Ian’s face as the young man lays gasping and trembling on a polished hardwood floor. Rhys’ wand is already lighting up even as he cups Ian’s cheek. _“Let’s see if we can go for four minutes this time, hmm?”_ Ian’s eyes widen but the curse hits him before he can say anything and his spine arcs off the floor, screams fading as Tassiter lets the memory go.

“Interesting,” Tassiter says. “Was this John’s idea?”

It _had_ been Jack’s idea, and Rhys is pulled inexorably to the memory of private sessions with Jack, to a vision of looking up at Jack from his position on his knees.

“ _I know you won’t betray me, Rhysie, not on purpose. But that taint Tassiter won’t hesitate to curse your balls off, and you have to be ready for that, you get me?”_ Rhys remembers nodding - of course it made sense to be prepared, to build up a resistance - and he sees Jack’s face grinning in the light of the Unforgivable Curse arcing off his wand and into Rhys’ chest. It had hurt, of course it had hurt, that was the whole point; but the next vision is of Jack’s approving face as he rolls Rhys over on his back and that had been worth any amount of pain.

Tassiter _tch_ ’s again and moves on, sorting through memories so fast Rhys can’t hardly see what they are, except that they all involve Jack, the one stable figure in a frenetic blur of people and places and things. He’s vaguely nauseous, and he’d close his eye against it if he could but the blur of images is _behind_ his eye, it’s in his head, and it’s getting faster and _faster_ -

There’s a feeling like a train derailing inside Rhys’ skull and his vision goes completely and entirely white.

“Hmm.” Tassiter taps his wand against Rhys’ temple and the images start to back up and replay, but almost as soon as the scene starts up again it cuts out into whiteness, like running into a wall.

 _“Interesting_ .” Tassiter sounds almost gleeful. “What _did_ he make you forget?”

Rhys grits his teeth as Tassiter circles the hole in his memory, prodding at the edges to try to learn the shape of it. It shifts with Tassiter’s probing, slipping to the side and letting other jumbled memories spill in - Rhys lacing up Jack’s boots, the gentle softness of freshly-fallen snow, the smell of a strong cup of tea - but it yields nothing, a void so complete Rhys hadn’t even known it was there. The hand on Rhys’ jaw tightens as Tassiter tries to force his way through it, and Rhys feels his eye roll up in its socket as his body starts to shake. He’s not sure Legilimancy is supposed to feel like this, not sure it’s supposed to _hurt_ -

Rhys feels his heart skip a beat, then another, and then Rhys’ vision clears to show Tassiter with a thoughtful frown, pulling his wand away from Rhys’ temple and stepping back. Rhys collapses back against the wall as Tassiter releases his jaw, sliding down it when his legs refuse to support him. He tips his head back dizzily against the wall to look up at Tassiter; as much as he wants to curl up and never look at anything again,  _not_ watching the Minister is probably more dangerous. At least this way he can see what’s coming.

Tassiter tucks his wand away and folds his hands behind his back. “John was never very good at _obliviate_ , you know,” he says conversationally. “Always so sloppy. I’m sure he left something behind - we’ll just have to see if we can find it without exploding your heart.” Tassiter grins like the thought amuses him, then turns and makes for the bars of the cell door, which shimmer again as he passes through. He puts a hand on the back of the chair and it crumbles to ash, the remains skittering across the flagstones like live things until they melt into the grime of the hallway floor.

“Congratulations,” Tassiter says as he wipes his fingers on a handkerchief. His Patronus settles on his shoulder, silvery-blue wings hunching large over the Minister’s head. “You are temporarily more valuable alive. Rest up, and we’ll try again tomorrow.” He leaves without waiting for a reply, footsteps echoing on the cold, wet stones of the hallway.

Rhys forces himself to breathe evenly. In through the mouth, out through the nose. It works, a little; his heart rate slows even as the chill of the prison seeps back into his skin.

He hadn’t known there was anything missing. Jack would never - except he _had_ , clearly there was something Rhys had known that Jack didn’t want anyone else to find. Rhys feels a brief pang that Jack hadn’t trusted him, but it’s soothed by the knowledge that whatever it was, Tassiter won’t be able to find it.

Jack’s only grown more powerful since he left the Ministry. He wouldn’t have left any traces behind.

Rhys just has to hold on, and be patient.

* * *

 

Patience is - not _easy_ , but maybe _easier_ in those first few days, even in the perpetual chill of the fortress prison.

Tassiter is back the next day, as promised. And the next. The third day Rhys spends alone but the Minister is back on the fourth, and Rhys grows to know the sharp sound of his shoes on the stone tile. Apparating is impossible inside the prison, so Tassiter has to take the long way down. He’s Rhys’ only visitor, besides the guard that brings him his daily meal.

And the Dementors, of course.

He doesn’t pass out, after that first time, although he wishes he would. Sometimes they just float in front of his cell door, feeding in little sips as Rhys presses himself against the far wall and shakes. What’s worse, though, is when they clear out entirely, because that’s always followed by the sharp _tap-tap_ of Tassiter’s shoes approaching. Each session spent raking through Rhys’ memories leaves Rhys’ body strung tight and his mind jumbled - Tassiter takes less and less care each time as he fails to break through the hole in Rhys’ memory, tearing through the scenes of Rhys’ life and leaving them scattered behind him.

Rhys can’t help the small flare of victory and relief each time Tassiter drops him back to the dirty cell floor, frustrated again by the impenetrable blankness Jack left behind. He tries to squash it down as Tassiter leaves angry and irritated, because when Tassiter leaves he takes his Patronus with him and then -

Victory, or at least the feeling of it, is short-lived when the guards can smell emotions, and as the hallway outside fills with the shifting of spectral fabric Rhys curls up on himself. His _mind_ aches when Tassiter’s done with him, something he hadn’t known was possible, and it’s easier if he doesn’t fight this part, if he doesn’t try to hold on to that feeling of triumph and just lets the Dementors eat their fill.

It’s over sooner, at any rate.

As the days - weeks? Rhys has lost count - wear on, Tassiter comes less frequently, although his sessions are no less vicious, leaving Rhys trembling and confused. It’s taking him longer to put himself back together after each one, and that’s -

It’s not good. And it’s getting harder to hold on.

* * *

 

Rhys hums to himself as the water boils, digging through the cabinets in Jack’s kitchen for some decent tea. Jack’s terrible at keeping this kind of stuff on hand; but, Rhys supposes, he has more important things to think about. The teakettle screams at him and Rhys flicks a hand at it, banishing the flame and sound in the same motion. He emerges from the cabinet triumphant and pours the water over his hard-won teabag, breathing in the comforting steam.

He’s barely set the cup down on the sitting room table before Jack bursts in, teeth bared and eyes lit with excitement.

“Leave that, pumpkin, we’re on a schedule.” Jack looks around, gaze jumping all over the room, practically vibrating out of his skin. “Where are my boots?”

Rhys is about to answer - _by the fire, where you always leave them_ \- when everything whites out, and an indistinct voice snarls in his ear.

“Son of a _bitch._ ” Rhys blinks his eyes - his _eye_ , he only has one of them now - open to see Tassiter grinding his teeth inches away from his face, one hand clamped firmly around Rhys’ jaw and the other grinding his wand into Rhys’ temple.

“ _Again_ ,” Tassiter growls, and if Rhys could think of a way to stop this, to stop replaying this scene that ends in blankness over and over again he would, but it’s hard to think, everything hurts and it’s _hard_ , he’s not sure anymore what’s here and now and what’s memory -

Something twinges deep in his chest and Rhys holds his breath. It doesn’t feel like his heart, but maybe that’s the best Rhys can hope for, to just give up and give out before Tassiter can learn anything.

“ _I am the best goddamned wizard this continent has ever seen, and you think you can take me?”_

Jack’s voice echoes between them and Rhys feels his eye widen. Rhys doesn’t remember this - at least, he’s pretty sure he doesn’t, and neither does Tassiter, if his sudden frown is anything to go by.

“ _Good luck, buttercup, let me know how that goes for you.”_ Jack’s face swims into focus, a vision outlined in crystal-edged clarity completely unlike the warm rounded edges of memory.

_Jack laughs, wand aglow as he fires off spell after spell. He cuts down Auror after Auror, feral grin blinding in the flashes of arcane light._

He’s in the middle of a pitched battle, Rhys realizes, and this must be real, it must be happening _right now_ . Rhys feels a silver thread of hope rising in him; he’d held out long enough, he hadn’t given anything up, and he doesn’t know exactly what he’s seeing but _Jack is coming for him_ -

_Jack turns, laughing, and a green-tinged curse takes him right in the chest._

Rhys’ breath catches in his lungs.

 _Jack looks surprised. His wand wobbles and then falls to the ground, his fingers suddenly limp. His legs buckle underneath him and his body collapses_.

Rhys realizes over the implosion in his chest that the screams he’s hearing are his own.

Rhys comes back to himself sobbing, blinking away the vision of the Aurors turning over Jack’s body, face still frozen in surprise, scar fading into view as the glamour Jack always wears dissipates. It can’t be true, it _can’t_ , Jack’s invincible, he’s the strongest wizard this continent - that this _world_ has ever seen, it can’t be true, _he can’t be dead_.

“Well.” Tassiter releases him and Rhys collapses gratefully to the floor, bracing himself on his hands and knees. He doesn’t want to look at the Minister, he doesn’t want to know this, he doesn’t want to know _anything_ anymore. Not if Jack’s gone.

Tassiter crouches in front of him, elbows on his thighs, wand held loosely in one hand. “How did you do that, I wonder?” He tries to tip Rhys’ chin up, but Rhys jerks his face away. _It’s not true_ . “A True Seeing is difficult to master.” _It can’t be true_.

“More importantly,” Tassiter continues as he stands. “It’s impossible to falsify.”

Rhys goes cold.

“Look on the bright side, Mr. LeConte,” Tassiter says, stepping away and tapping the bars of the cell door with his wand. Rhys refuses to look up, huddled on the floor, closing his eye as if he can _will_ this away. “With John dead, it no longer matters what was in your head. You can live out the rest of your life - such as it is - in peace. Well,” he pauses on the other side of the door, resting a hand on the iron bars. “In relative peace. I hear you are a quite the favorite among Dementors.” He taps his fingers against the bar thoughtfully and leaves without another word, footsteps echoing up the hall, and Rhys is left alone with only the sound of his own ragged breathing.

It can’t be true. _It can’t_.

 _Impossible to falsify_ , Tassiter had said, and he would - he would know about that kind of thing, wouldn’t he? Rhys doesn’t know - he feels cold and sick and _empty,_ rubbing at his chest as if that will soothe the ache. It feels like something’s been ripped out of him and he didn’t - he didn’t know it was possible to feel this way and _survive_.

Maybe it’s not, Rhys thinks despairingly. Maybe he won’t survive it.

Maybe he doesn’t want to. Not if Jack’s not waiting for him.

Rhys curls up on the dirty floor - he can’t hardly hold himself up anymore, and he doesn’t see the point in trying - and waits for the Dementors to come. They always come after Tassiter leaves, and maybe this time he _will_ pass out from it. That would be a mercy.

The hallway outside is silent and empty.

It remains empty through the subtle light change that means it’s night outside, and again through the miniscule brightening that means dawn.

Rhys doesn’t move, staring unblinking at the wall.

He doesn’t move when the guard brings him his meal that day, or the next.

Tassiter doesn’t return. The Dementors lose interest. Rhys tries not to sleep because every time he closes his eye he sees a flash of green and Jack’s surprised, lifeless face.

Azkaban breaks everyone eventually.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a collaboration between [me](http://thirtysixsavefiles.tumblr.com) and [scootsaboot](http://scootsaboot.tumblr.com).


End file.
